


Heavy Handed

by ottergirl



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Frottage, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26993902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ottergirl/pseuds/ottergirl
Summary: Jon catches Martin in his office after hours.Set in Season 2. Written for Kinktober 2020, prompt spanking + frottage.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 17
Kudos: 90





	Heavy Handed

“What are you doing in here?”

Jon’s voice, the harshness in it, made Martin leap back from his desk. Framed in the doorway of his office, Jon stared at him, his eyes moving briefly to the desk, scanning over the surface of it as though to make sure nothing was disturbed, before jumping back to his face. Martin hadn’t disturbed a thing, truly he hadn’t, since coming in. There wasn’t anything to disturb, anyway, aside from a tape recorder and a few pieces of paper with statements written on them, perfectly ordinary stuff; at least Jon wasn’t keeping his photos of his employees’ homes in view anymore. Martin hadn’t even meant to come in. Just, he’d been passing by on his way out, he’d seen the light under the door, he’d knocked and called Jon’s name. No different than dozens of other nights, and getting no answer, he’d known he ought to just leave it.

But poking his head around the door just to see if Jon had fallen asleep at his desk, and then being confronted with the empty office, had led to his unwise choice to come in and...what, wait for him to come back? See if he needed anything? 

He knew very well Jon didn’t appreciate anyone lurking about these days. It was liable to make him look at them like, well, like Jon was looking at him now. Martin saw him swallow. Saw his fingers clench into fists. His expression was dark with anger, there was no mistaking it, but also—Christ—what was Jon so afraid of?

It brought back the memory of how relieved Jon had seemed when Martin at last admitted to him the lies on his CV: as though the secret he’d gotten out of him then had been so much better than he was expecting. He couldn’t help noticing how sunken Jon’s eyes seemed in his face, ringed with dark circles, and how the silvery scars down his cheek and neck seemed to stand out against his ashen pallor. His exhaustion could hardly be clearer. It made Martin wish desperately he were in any kind of position to insist that Jon go home and get a good night’s sleep for once, in an actual bed, away from the Archives. Instead, he was only in a position to get thoroughly chewed out, and possibly attacked, by his boss. Martin too glanced quickly at the desk, making sure there was nothing sharp in sight that he might have to defend himself from.

He put his hands up in the universal gesture of peace. “I’m, I’m not doing anything, really,” he said, which was hardly the least suspicious opener. “Just wanted to check on you. Saw the light under the door, y’know.” He’d used to do it all the time, before Jon started suspecting him of murder.

Jon sidled into the office. He wasn’t trying to be obvious about it, but he was definitely keeping his back to the wall, facing Martin as he moved towards his desk. “And as I was away, you decided you would just...come in uninvited. Have a look around.”

“No! I mean, well, yeah, obviously, I came in, but I wasn’t having a look around or anything, I was just—” God, this wasn’t going well. What was he supposed to say? _I was just thinking of you? I was just lonely for you? I just wanted to pretend to be near you?_

“Waiting,” Martin settled on after a cringe-inducing pause. “Waiting to see if you would, er, if you’d want a cup of tea.”

“I don’t want tea,” Jon snapped. He moved around the desk, coming nearer to Martin with that same sidelong air, and yanked open a drawer, partially shielding it with his body. Martin glimpsed another tape recorder before Jon slammed it shut again. He braced one tense hand on the edge of the desk, his thin shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. “As harmless as your overtures may have been in the past, Martin, they do nothing to reassure me now. This skulking around after hours—”

Martin couldn’t help his scoff. Jon lifted his head to glare at him, clearly taking his meaning. “What I do in my own time is my business. You, however, are not authorized to be here outside of working hours, and you’re certainly not approved for overtime—”

“Overtime! Right. Can’t get enough of this place, God knows.” Harmless overtures. Martin thought, _I’ll show you a harmless overture._

“Well, which is it?” Jon’s voice was rising. He took a step away from his desk, towards Martin, as stiff and upright as an exclamation point. It looked as though he were trying to scare him into submission with a stature he couldn’t quite manage. Tense all over, the clench of his hands not quite hiding their trembling. “Are you here to do your job, or are you here for some—some other purpose? I suppose that business with your CV was to throw me off track. Where else have you been tonight? Have you been in the tunnels?”

“Jon.” All things considered, Martin thought he spoke quite calmly. “Are you really that afraid of me?”

Jon stared, his throat working. For a moment, Martin thought he was actually going to attack him. Which was silly, of course; whatever else Jon was, at the end of the day, he was still Martin’s boss. There was still some hint of reason in him. 

Then Jon lunged at him.

There was no time to defend himself. Jon struck him like an offended cat, angry and sharp, fingers biting into his arms as he shoved Martin so that the backs of his thighs jarred painfully against the edge of Jon’s desk. His mouth was vicious and bruising against Martin’s, teeth clashing against his, tongue hot and wet, demanding—demanding entry, oh God, Jon was _kissing_ him. Kissing him hard and furiously, with an ill grace and little finesse, all the long angles of his body pressing up against him. Martin’s dumbfounded mind was still trying to catch up when the rest of him was already fully in agreement, opening up to the assault of Jon’s teeth and tongue, making a sound that was embarrassingly like a moan of relief. The heat that suffused his body was swiftly beginning to fill his cock, too. Jon grabbed unforgivingly at his collar, yanking him into the kiss, straining up to his mouth. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what Jon wanted, what would please him. His hands hovered, wanting to hold him, wanting to soothe his fear and anger, gentle him with touch, and at the same time Martin wanted to let him do anything he wanted, Christ, Jon could bruise him, fuck him, he could do anything to him, anything at all.

Jon broke away from his mouth, breathing hard and unsteadily, his eyes darkened and enormous as he looked into Martin’s face for a brief moment. He seemed to find whatever he was searching for, hands and gaze dropping to Martin’s trousers, fingers jerkily unfastening the front of them. His teeth dug into his lower lip and Martin stared dazedly, Jon’s lip looking swollen and bruised just as his own felt, throbbing from the assault that had been Jon’s mouth on his. “Jon,” he managed, just as Jon got his trousers open and shoved his pants down to expose Martin’s cock, hard and flushed.

“Wait,” Martin said shakily, reaching to—he didn’t know, and Jon shoved his hands out of the way, grabbing one wrist to pin it against the edge of the desk and taking hold of Martin’s cock in his other hand. He gasped and bucked up into it, into the white-hot jolt of sensation that trembled through his body. Jon’s hand on him was cruel, grasping him too tightly, working too hard over sensitive skin. Oh, Christ, he’d known he would be like this. Thought of it, imagined it: how Jon would be as demanding, as unforgiving in this as he was in every other way to Martin, expecting him to take it without complaint. And he did, hips thrusting helplessly to Jon’s tight grasp, mouth open, spilling gasps and helpless moans.

Jon’s eyes met his again, and he looked fascinated, his own face flushed dark, lip bitten. Martin couldn’t stop himself from cupping his one free hand shakily around Jon’s jaw to pull him into a kiss again. For an instant he felt Jon tremble. His mouth softened, his grip loosened slightly—but then he pulled back and the set of his jaw and the glitter in his eyes was hard once more.

“Turn around.”

Martin obeyed the order hurriedly. Without question, almost without thought, bracing his hands on Jon’s desk— “Bend down,” Jon told him, his voice darkened in a way that had the hair on the nape of Martin’s neck standing on end. He bent over the desk until he was resting flat across it. Head turned to the side, looking at the tape recorder: it was switched on, whirring softly, and when had that happened? Maybe he’d hit it somehow, when Jon shoved him back against the desk.

He thought briefly of bringing it up, but then he heard the sound of Jon unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly, and then the brush of his hot, hard cock against him had all thoughts flying out of Martin’s head. Jon yanked down his trousers so that his arse was fully exposed. Martin was tense all over, fingers curling into fists against the desk. He was so wound up he was shaking himself, now, his cock aching and wet with precome, so brutally hard he felt as though he could have come right then from just one more stroke, one more cruel touch.

Jon gave it to him, but not the way he expected. He struck Martin hard across his arse, with a flat, open palm. Martin’s shocked cry came an instant after the sharp crack of sound, followed by another hard smack that made his skin throb with stinging heat.

“Is this what you came in here for, Martin?” There was a biting, unkind edge in Jon’s voice and in the way he struck Martin again and again. “Because if I’d known you wanted to make yourself so useful—”

Another smack jerked a moan from Martin’s throat. Jon stopped hitting him, grabbing handfuls of his sore arse and shoving his cock up against him. He heard himself whimper, the hot length of Jon’s cock rubbing over his skin where he was inflamed, dripping slick precome onto him and smearing the mess of it over his cheeks and in between them. 

It was shocking. It was filthy, crude, frantic, Jon palming him in both hands and squeezing his smarting cheeks, slotting his cock between them as he rutted against him. Martin couldn’t help the way he arched back to him, in pain and exaltation, offering himself wantonly. His heart soared to be the one giving Jon pleasure. His thoughts were frenzied with need and lust and disbelief, that this could be happening, that he could be bent over Jon’s desk right now with Jon getting off on him, biting back his sharp gasps, his broken moans.

At last Jon went rigidly still with a stifled cry, bent over him, and Martin felt the pulse of his seed across his arse, spilling down the small of his back, smearing between the cheeks of his arse when Jon rubbed slowly between them once or twice more. Harsh breaths, the dig of Jon’s fingers into his flesh, bruising points of contact between them. Martin bore it as long as he could, stretched up on his toes. “Jon, please,” he said at last, voice cracking straight down the middle.

Jon jerked against him. “I—Martin—” His voice was shaken, but then he reached beneath him and took his cock into his grasp with an unexpected confidence. Martin sobbed at the touch, the relief in those steady strokes, far kinder than they had been before; once, twice, that was all it took before he was coming, his own hips jerking as he spilled and spilled.

He lay lax against the desk, in a trance of pleasure and the draining away of intensity and strain, in the confused intimacy of the kiss Jon pressed against the nape of his neck, so brief and tender that it took him only moments to decide he had imagined it. 

Jon tugged at him, and Martin straightened up slowly, suppressing a groan at all the bruises he could feel throbbing over his skin and his sore, hot arse. A piece of paper peeled away from his cheek and fluttered back to the surface of the desk. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like, tumbled sweaty curls, face stained red, Jon’s seed and his own marking his skin. He didn’t want to see what Jon looked like either. A twist of fear in his stomach made him want to flee the office and never look back. But Jon pulled him around to face him, Martin going obediently with a sensation like turning to face his doom, and Jon was frowning at him extensively, his own face darkly flushed, fumbling for a handkerchief and shoving it into Martin’s hands. The expression on his face was a familiar one, more thoughtfulness than anger, and the tightness in Martin’s chest eased just a little. 

He cleaned himself up as best as he could. Jon even helped him, tugging his clothing to rights and then turning away with a mutter of something Martin couldn’t hear, fastening his own trousers with the flush in his skin darkening by the moment.

All this time Martin hadn’t said a word; finally he forced his tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth. “Jon, can I—are you—can I get you _anything?”_ he asked out of sheer desperation.

“No,” Jon said quickly. “No, I don’t need anything, I…” He glanced over his desk, focusing for a moment on the tape recorder. A bewildered expression crossed his face, and he shut it off. “I think I’ll just go home and—and get some rest.”

The absence of the whirring of the tape recorder, Martin thought, made the silence inordinately loud. He was glad Jon wanted to get some rest. He was glad to have...helped. He was about to make some excuse of his own and run for the door, but then Jon spoke again.

“If you did, ah, if you still were planning on—on making some tea, Martin, I—we—we could have a cup, I think.” He took a deep breath. “Before finishing up here.”

“Oh,” Martin said shakily. “Yeah. We could do that.”

Perhaps they’d walk out together, he thought a little giddily as he went to make the tea. Perhaps he’d get to see Jon off home for a good night’s sleep for once, instead of leaving him at his desk, a single lamp burning in the darkness of the Archives. _Before finishing up here,_ Jon had said, and Martin wondered what else he might have planned.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, feedback greatly appreciated! Visit me on tumblr @ clmariewrites.


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